Fado, Fado
Irvine, California-based Allergan Corporation announced this week that it will close its Arklow, Ireland production facilities and shift production of its very profitable line of breast implants to Costa Rica.
Woe unto Ireland. Woe unto County Wicklow. And woe especially unto the 360 folks in the little seaside town of Arklow who will lose their jobs at the tit factory. Allergan reassured the workers at its Botox factory in Westport, County Mayo, Ireland that their jobs are safe for the time being.
Though the company and the plant in Arklow remain very profitable, the decision was nonetheless made to shift tit production to Costa Rica where costs are much lower and consumers of the product are apparently closer. “Tits just aren’t selling as well in Ireland and Europe anymore, and the market in Central and South America is burgeoning. Demand in the Latin-American countries is firm, while European demand is sagging,” stated a company spokesperson.
The news of this plant closing troubles me. Is the “sagging demand” for tits a harbinger of a sagging Irish economy, or just an isolated tempestuous corporate decision? The other troubling aspect of this story is that, unless my statistics are inaccurate, Ireland will change from being a net exporter of tits to a net importer of the bouncy objects of desire. In fact, the tit-making industry in Ireland will be relegated to nothing more than the cottage industry it once was.
I decided to rent a car and head down the N11 to Arklow to check on this troubling story for myself. Knowing that Arklow was pretty much a company town, I figured if I found a pub near to the Allergan factory, I’d be sure to find someone crying in his beer about the plant closing. I chose Murphy’s Pub. Sure enough there was a huddle of men over in the corner of the pub having a few pints and chatting. I made my way over and blurted “Do any of you work at the Allergan plant?” One of the men spoke up, “We all do, or did.” Jackpot, I thought to myself. “Are you a Yank? You don’t work for Allergan, do you?” “No,” I assured them. “I’m writing an article for a web-site back home in California about the plant closing. So, what happened? Anyone want to tell me their side of the story?” I signaled the barkeep for another round. A little lubricant, I thought.
The first to speak up was an ungainly fella, a big hulk of a man. His name was Fergal. “Sure, the world has become a cold, greedy place. We put our lives into that plant, and we always made a tidy profit for those greedy bastards in Orange County. This is how they pay us back, the fookers. Tit makin’ is all I’ve ever known, what am I supposed to do now?” Another of the men spoke up, “Fair play, Fergal. This man is a master craftsman. Show ‘em your hands, Fergal.” With that, Fergal pulled his hands from his pockets and presented them to me. Fergal’s hands were a shocking mismatch with the rest of his hulking body. His hands were tiny and delicate, with beautifully tapered, feather-like fingers. These were obviously not the hands of an unskilled factory laborer.
“Brilliant hands has our Fergal. Exquisite. The best in the business. The hands of a master tit maker. What’s yer man supposed to do with those hands now, lad? It’s a fookin’ waste and a damn shame,” said one of the men. “Ay”, said the rest of the crew in unison, nodding in agreement.
“I didn’t realize tit making was a craft,” I told the group. There was a collective gasp and one of them said, “Well, it isn’t exactly fillin’ a zip-lock bag with saline and passing it down the line, lad. That’s what the goons in Irvine don’t understand. How are they gonna find the likes of Fergal in Costa Rica? He’s got a sensitivity in those hands that no Costa Rican will ever have. Fergal has a world of breast experience in those hands. He’s felt ‘em all. A’s to double D’s, pert, sprightly, firm, soft, Fergal instinctively knows exactly how to shape and fill breast implants so they’ll fit perfectly in their new homes. And what about the stichin’? It’s a delicate job, lad. How’d you like to be out to dinner with your trophy wife and all of the sudden, saline comes leaching through her milky-whites and spots up her expensive evening gown. Not a pretty sight, I reckon.”
“Wow, I never realized,” I said to the group, titillated by images of Fergal working his magic. “It’s no accident that Allegan chose Arklow for a breast implant factory. Our master craftsmen and women were making breasts long before Allergan got into the game”, said one of the men. “You should check out the Arklow Breast Implant Museum while you’re in town.” A tit museum. Can’t be, I said to myself. They’re taking the piss now. “You’re joking,” I said. “We’re serious as a heart attack, lad. It’s down on the Quays. You should have a visit.” “I will” I said, and I thanked them for their time.
I glanced at my watch. 4:45PM. I’d better hurry if I want to make it to the tit museum before it closes. I parked along the Quays in front of the unremarkable museum storefront. There was an older woman locking the place up. I lurched up to her and asked, “Is this the Breast Implant Museum?” “It is indeed, but I was just closing up,” said the woman. I pled my case and explained that I’d come all the way from Dublin. The woman who introduced herself as Mary Margaret was kind enough to unlock the museum and let me in.
“I was at Murphy’s talking to the lads about the layoffs at the plant and they told me about the museum,” I said. “Yes, ‘tis a sad time for Arklow, now. We’re so proud of the small part we’ve played in the world of breast implants, and now I’m afraid that’s all coming to an end,” said Mary Margaret as I wandered around the museum. I looked up and noticed a long row of photographs on the walls. It was obvious that these were placed in order year by year. Black and white gave way to color. The distinct commonality in the photos, however, was that they were all photos of twins. Twin brothers, twin sisters. “What are these photos of?” I asked Mary Margaret. “Oh, these are the winners of our “Cutest Little Twins Contest” over the past 35 years. We hold the contest during the “Breast Implant Festival and Parade,” said Mary Margaret. I just let that one go.
I moved to a row of display cases with a sign over them that said, “Thirty-Five Years of Breast Implant and Augmentation History”. Each case was labeled with a range of dates. Each case had a storyboard mounted above it that told the date range and some of the highlights of those years. By this time Mary Margaret had taken an interest in me and asked if she could tell me about the exhibit. I enthusiastically agreed.
“Now, this is 1972 through 1980, and those gray-brown sacks you see in the cabinet are samples of the first implants we made here in Arklow in 1972. They’re made out of sheep’s bladder.” “You’re kidding,” I said. “You made breast implants out of a sheep’s bladder? I never dreamed …” “Yep, sheep’s bladder filled with, guess what, water from the Irish Sea. In those days in Ireland, you had to work with the materials God gave ya. We have plenty of sheep in Wicklow County, and the Irish Sea is at our front door.” “No way!” I exclaimed. “God’s truth,” said Mary Margaret. “Did you know that the first breast implants were made in 1895, and that augmentation mammoplasty has been performed since 1889? The doctors in those days tried injecting paraffin, but that had disastrous results. Through the mid-1900’s doctors tried injecting everything including glass balls, ground rubber, ox cartilage, Terylene wool, gutta-percha, Dicora, polyethylene chips, and polyvinyl alcohol-formaldehyde polymer sponge. Then someone got the bright idea of inserting a sack during surgery and filling the sacks to cut down on contamination, scaring, and infection.”
“In the early 1960s RTV vulcanized silicone elastomer was introduced and it changed the world of breast implants. RTV VSE didn’t catch on here in Arklow until the early 1980‘s. Here’s a picture of our own dear Fiona Whelan showing some of the first RTV VSE bags we made here in Arklow. There are a few samples in the case. They’re filled with saline for the display purposes, but they don’t really fill them until they’re well inside the patient. We do ship a supply of Irish Sea water to fill them with, sterilized, of course. People tell us there are properties in the Irish Sea water that you just don’t get with processed saline.” “What are those little coin-like things inside the implants?” I asked. Mary Margaret’s face started to blush and she explained, “Oh, those are Miraculous Medals. You see, Fiona had just come back from a pilgrimage to Lough Derg filled with the spirit of the Blessed Virgin Mary and began to put Miraculous Medals into the implant bags. She always fancied how the RTV VSE bags were clear and shiny compared to the dingy old sheep’s bladders. They showed the medals so clearly when they were filled with saline. So Fiona thought wouldn’t it be a blessing to have a Miraculous Medal or two so close to herself’s heart? Nobody in Quality Control found out what she’d done for a few months. So there are probably quite a few women walking around receiving splendid divine blessings and not having a clue why.”
Thanks to my friend Dermott (DoubleT) for explaining Miraculous Medals.
“Those were good days,” said Mary Margaret with a sigh. She began to get choked up and told me, “Dear Fiona left us this year, rest in peace. And now the plant’s closing. It’s hard times now. Listen, I don’t want to be rude, but I have to lock up.” “I completely understand,” I said holding Mary Margaret’s hand to offer some comfort. “Thank you, you’re very good,” she said.
I bid my goodbyes and stood on the sidewalk in front of the museum while the melancholy of the place washed over me. Woe unto Ireland, Woe unto County Wicklow, Woe unto Arklow, and woe unto us all.
Copyright (C) 2004 – 2019 Abram Richman All Rights Reserved
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